


For Your Eyes Only

by sequence_fairy



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Colleagues to Lovers, Desk Sex, M/M, Probably too much banter but that's just them isn't it, bits all the way down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: The door to the elevator opens and Shane's stomach sinks. He’d know the breadth of those shoulders anywhere.“Moneypenny!” Ryan crows, as he sweeps towards Shane’s desk. Shane thinks wistfully of the long rice noodles and sweet-spicy sauce he has been dreaming about all week. Mr Daeng’s Tom Yum would also have been such a nice addition to Shane’s fridge for the weekend.“Don’t call me that,” Shane says, and regrets it immediately.OR: Shane's a bit long-suffering, and Ryan's a bit insufferable, but that's just the show, isn't it?
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 38
Kudos: 226





	For Your Eyes Only

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathtaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/gifts).



> Thanks to [Meph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quackers/pseuds/quackers) for the beta, [Aly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken) for the britpick and the enablement and the bridge club for initially inspiring Shane-as-Moneypenny. All my love to all of you.

Shane is a reasonably good man, he thinks. He pays his taxes, picks up the mail for Mrs Hill in 6B when she visits her daughter in Dover, looks after Sara's cat when she's out of town, and he is rarely late for work. He gives regularly to the birthday fund at the office, and actively helps to prevent potentially world-ending incidents from occurring on a regular basis.

All this seems like a reason that he should not have to deal with any more today, seeing as how it’s Friday, and there is Thai takeaway in his near future. All he has to do is just get through this afternoon without any further international conflict arising.

Behind the heavy, dark wood door that leads to M’s inner office, voices are raised. The meeting has run long, as they are wont to do, and Shane's desk phone blinks with several calls, all waiting for M. And they will continue waiting. Shane directs a dark look at his phone bank. This week has been back to back to back. Shane is fairly certain that M’s actually been sleeping in her office, but he’d never ask and she won’t tell.

The door to the elevator opens and Shane's stomach sinks. He’d know the breadth of those shoulders anywhere. 

“Moneypenny!” Ryan crows, as he sweeps towards Shane’s desk. Shane thinks wistfully of the long rice noodles and sweet-spicy sauce he has been dreaming about all week. Mr Daeng’s Tom Yum would also have been such a nice addition to Shane’s fridge for the weekend.

“Don’t call me that,” Shane says, and regrets it immediately. He knows better than to rise to Ryan’s bait. He does. He swears to God, he does. Or he did. 

Ryan’s grin turns knowing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes dance. Shane looks down at the blotter, carefully studying the faint impressions of the penned notes he’d taken earlier when M had been pacing while dictating a briefing report. 

“M in?” Ryan asks. He raps his knuckles on the edge of Shane’s desk. Shane looks up. Ryan’s dressed down for a 00 agent, leather jacket sitting comfortably across his shoulders and a dark red henley underneath. His hair’s in a bit of rakish disarray, which Shane assumes is because Ryan was down in Q branch earlier that day. Not that he’s keeping tabs on Ryan’s movements through HQ or anything.

“She’s in with the Foreign Minister and the Intelligence Director,” Shane says, pushing away from his desk to block Ryan’s way. “You can’t interrupt—” 

Ryan brushes past Shane’s outstretched arm. Shane’s fingers get the barest impression of the grain of the leather of Ryan’s jacket and he hates that he’s going to remember that later, and wish it had been more.

Shane is a step behind Ryan when Ryan throws open the inner door and strides into M’s office. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane leaps in before Ryan can say anything. “I tried to stop him—” He can feel his hands lifting in a helpless gesture that he cannot control. 

“Bergara,” M interjects. She’s dressed all in black today, her greying hair cut short. She’s seated on the edge of her desk, knees crossed over one another; a heel hanging from the toes of one stockinged foot. 

The Foreign Minister had turned from his perusal of the view outside the large window when the door opened. The Intelligence Director is seated in the plush loveseat pushed against the other wall of the office. He had only briefly glanced up at the intrusion and then immediately gone back to reviewing the documents in the folder open across his lap.

From where Shane is standing almost directly behind him, he watches the way Ryan’s shoulders square and his stance goes from at ease to attention at M’s address. 

“It’s polite to knock when you enter someone’s office,” M admonishes, pushing herself off her desk, and into both shoes. “Now that you’re here, though, Mr Thatch has some questions you will be able to answer.” She looks over Ryan’s shoulder. “That will be all, Shane,” she says, and Shane nods, knowing a dismissal when he hears one. He backs out of the office, pulling the door shut behind him. He allows his forehead to rest against the wood as it shuts. 

Shane breathes out. The phone bank on his desk continues to blink.

-:-

“You know,” Ryan says, leaning against Shane’s desk, on a Tuesday afternoon, cooling his heels after being summoned in from somewhere in Eastern Europe. “You don’t have to dress like a pin up.”

Shane counts backwards from ten in his head. In Urdu. He considers also doing it in Polish, but decides against it, resorting instead to a pattern of meditative breathing he learned in an agency-mandated therapy session. It helps. Marginally.

He is, today, dressed in what passes for usual day wear in the upper echelons of the MI6 offices: dark grey pants, a lightly patterned shirt in a sky blue that Shane knows he looks good in, and a soft suede jacket the colour of a fawn’s rump. His shoes are his usual pair of Oxfords, not overly shined but not scuffed either. His hair is carefully styled to stay out of his face. He is not, in any way, shape or form, dressed as a pin up. 

Ryan will know this, of course, which means he is looking for Shane to take umbrage to the comment and react in a way that will encourage Ryan to continue sniping at him at all opportunities. 

Shane is saved from having to decide if he wants to take the high road or further he and Ryan’s little back and forth by the sound of the buzzer on the intercom. “M will see you now,” Shane says, looking not at Ryan but at the clock on the wall over Ryan’s left shoulder. 

It is late in Tokyo.

Ryan pushes himself to standing. “You look good though,” he says, with a rap of his knuckle against Shane’s desk, and then he’s gone into M’s office before Shane can process the compliment. 

-:-

Ryan steals Shane’s favourite fountain pen in a fit of pique after Shane refuses to divulge to him where M is having lunch with the Prime Minister. Shane thinks he should be less irritated by the theft of a pen, but he really liked that one; it wrote very smoothly and the ink cartridges were easily re-filled without the usual mess. 

The next time Shane sees the pen is when he’s sitting in M’s office, while she’s reviewing CCTV footage of Ryan dispatching several attackers with brutal efficiency. They’ve got Ryan cornered in a dockyard somewhere, Shane thinks Central America by the warm quality of the sun’s light, and Ryan’s lost his handgun in the melee. 

Ostensibly, M doesn’t need Shane to be present for this, but she’d asked him to come in specifically to take notes while she reviews. The video is remarkably clear for security camera footage, but there’s no accounting for how billionaires choose to spend their money and this one seems to feel the need to have excellent video feeds and ex-KSK agents to protect his wares, for all the good it is currently doing him. 

On the screen, Ryan’s picked up a crowbar and is using it as a blunt instrument. It gets knocked out of his hand when one of the combatants kicks him in the knee, and Ryan goes down. Hard. Shane winces in sympathy. For a moment, it looks like things are going to go very badly, but Ryan pulls something out of the inner pocket of his jacket and stabs the attacker with it. 

It goes cleanly into his eye, and even though the feed has no sound, Shane can tell that the man howls. 

It’s over fairly quickly after that, with Ryan retrieving his crowbar and breaking knees and then jaws. It’s not until Ryan’s left the frame, headed for whatever objective he was after before being waylaid that Shane puts together that the item in the man’s eye is his pen. 

A week later, a package arrives on Shane’s desk. It’s addressed simply, reading only ‘Madej’ on the box. Shane eyes it warily all morning before grabbing it up to take with him on his usual lunch time walk down the Embankment. He picks a bench at random, and sits, letting the little box rest on his lap. 

Shane opens the box and inside he finds an exact replacement of his favourite pen. There’s no card. Shane sits on the bench for a long time, staring down at the pen, and wondering.

-:-

It so happens that things take a different turn on a windy late autumn Wednesday. Rain lashes against the big windows in the outer office. Shane’s seen neither hide nor hair of one Ryan Bergara for weeks. HQ has been awfully quiet without him around, and there’s a tightness around M’s eyes that Shane hasn’t seen there before. 

She keeps coming out to stand at the windows behind Shane’s desk, to look out over London and then going back into her office. He hasn’t been asked to keep her calendar light, but Shane does it anyway, understanding that she’s waiting for something and wants to be available.

The phone on Shane’s desk rings, and he picks it up, cradling the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, pen in hand to take the message. On the other end of the line is a voice, the connection thin and choppy. 

“This — _ schrk _ — 007, requesting  _ schrk— _ ion. Security code lam— _ schrk _ —zero niner four. Am— _ schrk _ —mised. Immedi— _ schrk _ —” 

The call drops. For a moment, there is only still silence. 

It’s broken by the sound of the receiver clattering to the desk when Shane drops it.

Shane’s moving before he can think, pulling open M’s office door. He wonders if she can see the way his pulse is thundering in his ears. “It’s Bergara—” Shane starts. M’s eyes widen. “He called—I tried, the connection was bad—-I—” 

“Thank you, Shane,” M says, voice carefully calm. “Please get Q on the phone. You may put him through directly as soon as you reach him.” 

Shane nods, jaw tight. She doesn’t say anything else, and he leaves her office, closing the door behind him. 

The next several hours are a flurry of calls, an actual appearance of a very harried looking Q, which is saying something as Q endeavours very hard to never seem anything but the picture of collected indifference, and then, finally, at nearly midnight, the news that Ryan has been successfully extracted. 

M sends Shane home with a tired smile. 

Shane leaves HQ to find that in the time since that phone call (and why had Ryan called M’s line anyway? Why not the proper channels? Why not follow protocol? They would have had him sooner if he’d been on the secured line to Operations, they trace every call coming in, no matter how insignificant it might seem at the time), the weather has cleared, and the sky over London is studded with the usual stars that manage to break through the light pollution. 

Shane walks home, along still-damp pavements, having eschewed the offer of a driver to take him back to his flat, thoughts racing with questions that have no answers and tries not to turn over every interaction he’s had with Ryan in his mind as he goes.

-:-

Things return to their usual keel after Ryan comes back from convalescing in some sun-drenched hideaway. At least, that’s where his file says he was. Not that Shane was looking for that detail in particular, and not that he’s noticed that when Ryan rolls back into M’s office, he doesn’t look like a man who spent the last few weeks lying on a beach. In fact, there doesn’t appear to be any deepening of the already glorious colour of his skin at all. Not that Shane thinks Ryan’s skin is glorious—oh well, who is he kidding here?

“Madej,” Ryan says, when he comes to a stop just short of Shane’s desk.

There’s nothing about his outward appearance that suggests any lasting trauma from this most recent incident, but Ryan’s not usually this formal with Shane. 

“007,” Shane replies in kind. 

It’s annoying to miss being annoyed by Ryan nigh on constantly, but Shane does, acutely. Work is never boring, but it is certainly more enjoyable when there’s the potential of Ryan arriving to pester him while he waits to see M, or more frequently, on his way by Shane’s desk to barge right into M’s office. 

Ryan shifts on his feet. 

“You’re not in M’s calendar today,” Shane says, watching Ryan out of the corner of his eye while he peruses M’s meetings for the day. She’s free now, he knows, but he’s not her gatekeeper because he just lets people in to see her without at least a little push back.

“Actually, I—” Ryan stops. Shane looks up at the tone in his voice and feels a tremor of something up the back of his neck. 

This is the first time in their long acquaintance that Ryan has looked — unsettled. Shane might even go so far as to say he looks nervous. His eyes are wide, and he’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, ruining the neat line of them disastrously, in Shane’s opinion. Unfortunately, it does nothing to keep Ryan from being as attractive as usual. Unfair, really. 

What has Shane done to deserve this particular torment?

“Unfortunately,” Shane says, resting his hands, palm down on the blotter on his desk. “M will be unable to see you today. She’s very busy, as you know. Perhaps you would like to email me with your availability? I can take a look to see where we might fit you into her schedule.” 

Ryan’s shoulders go up and he bristles briefly before settling. His jaw works for a moment, but Shane waits him out. Some things do not need to be said, and Shane is not about to start letting Ryan say them out loud. Never mind what the pretty red-haired therapist told Shane in his most-recent mandatory session, in this business, admitting to weakness will get you killed. 

“If possible, you are even more unhelpful than you were before,” Ryan gripes. He crosses his arms over his chest. Shane resolutely does not look at Ryan’s bare forearms, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Doing my best, sir,” Shane replies, in a tone that absolutely does not afford Ryan the respect his title gives him. 

Ryan’s eyes narrow. “I need to see M today,” Ryan says. There’s a hint of something in his voice that makes the base of Shane’s spine go a little liquid. Truly, his body is out to get him in new and imaginative ways and Shane is just along for the ride.

“As I said, her calendar is full.” 

“Surely you could find a place to slot me in,” Ryan argues, stepping closer to the desk. He stops short of really looming over Shane, even though this would be his one chance to manage it.

“Oh, no,” Shane says, eyes locked on Ryan’s. The skin under Shane’s collar goes hot, and something anticipatory wings up his spine. “She’s completely booked up. Full to the brim.” 

M chooses that moment to step out of her office, umbrella in hand. “Bergara,” she says, oblivious to the heated staring contest she has interrupted. “Walk with me, I’ve something I want to discuss.” 

“Seems M is free after all,” Ryan says, his eyebrows lifting briefly.

“Seems she is,” Shane agrees, leaning back in his chair and out of Ryan’s immediate presence. 

Ryan holds Shane’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary and then he’s turning, reaching for M’s coat on the rack and helping her into it. “Be seeing you,” Ryan offers, as he holds the door for M. He turns back to Shane just before he’s through the door after her and winks. 

“Of course,” Shane replies, but it’s completely on autopilot as his brain has utterly flatlined. 

Shane manages to wait until the door to the office shuts fully before he curls forward and lets his forehead come down to rest on the wrist rest of his keyboard. He allows himself a full thirty seconds of wallowing before he sits back up straight, spine protesting, and goes back to foiling the Parliamentary Secretary’s requests for a meeting with M with a vicious sort of glee.

-:-

The season turns once more, and London breathes in the warm spring air, rejoicing in its gentle and balmy nature as all the flowering trees burst into bloom all at once. Shane sees very little of this, as it’s been the April of international incidents. M’s been up to her eyeballs in varying government agencies, both foreign and domestic, and Shane’s been run off his feet balancing her calendar and everything that comes across his desk on its way to hers. 

He hasn’t left the office for home before eleven for weeks. 

Shane’s coming back from delivering a packet of files to Downing St., his coat over his arm and unwinding the long scarf from around his neck, when he notices someone leaning against the wall outside of M’s office. It’s been not quite a year since the last loitering ne’er-do-well tried to blow up HQ and everyone in it, and Shane’s heart ticks over apprehensively in his chest before he realises it’s Ryan. 

“Working late, Moneypenny?” Ryan asks, pushing himself off the wall as Shane draws closer. 

Shane rolls his eyes and fits his key into the door, unlocking it. 

“M is out of the country,” Shane says, when Ryan follows him into the office. Ryan shuts the door behind them.

“I know,” Ryan answers. He leans against the short side of the L of Shane’s desk, arms crossed over his chest. The dark jumper becomes him. 

“She won’t be back until later this week,” Shane says, settling his coat onto the rack by the door. 

“I know,” Ryan repeats. He looks down at one hand, as if to inspect his nails, but only briefly. When he looks back up, he catches Shane’s gaze. Ryan’s eyes are dark, but the shadowed office makes them more so. The length of desk between them suddenly seems like both too much and too little space.

Shane’s breath catches in the back of his throat. 

“What—” He swallows. “Is there something I can help you with in the meantime, Mister Bergara?” 

“I don’t know,” Ryan says. “I’m not sure if what I need help with is in your wheelhouse.” 

“I assure you,” Shane replies, “there are a great many wheels in my house.” 

“Is that so?” 

Shane nods. 

“What else  _ is _ in your wheelhouse, Moneypenny?” Ryan asks, voice low. 

“I asked you not to call me that,” Shane retorts, but he’s moving closer anyway, the fingers of one hand trailing along the top edge of his desk. Ryan’s gaze darts between Shane’s hand and Shane’s face. Something molten clings to the base of Shane’s spine, and he can see its companion in the heat of Ryan’s gaze.

“I think you like it when I call you that.” Ryan shifts, uncrossing his arms, and standing up to his full height. He’s somehow broader in the shoulders than Shane thought. There’s power in every part of him and Shane knows that every inch of Ryan is capable of violence. That thought shouldn’t thrill him as much as it does. 

“I really don’t.”

Ryan’s gaze lifts to meet Shane’s, his head tipping back as Shane closes the distance between them. In the half-dark, Ryan’s face is cast in shadow, but his eyes gleam like coals, drawing Shane in. 

“Make me stop,” Ryan says, and then, almost under his breath, almost like a threat; “Moneypenny.” 

Shane’s not conscious of making the choice to lean down, he just finds that he is, and then Ryan’s pushing up against him, and Ryan’s mouth is hot on his and Shane’s hands are around Ryan’s hips and that’s the hot slide of Ryan’s tongue against his own. 

It’s heady. 

Ryan’s a firm line of heat all the way down, his body flush against Shane’s. Ryan’s hands tug the tails of Shane’s shirt out from his belt, palms hot against Shane’s skin. He pulls Shane in, and Shane goes.

Ryan tilts his head, seeking a better angle for the kiss, as Ryan’s hands come up into Shane’s hair, fingers tightening as Shane slots a thigh in between Ryan’s, giving Ryan something to rock against. Ryan breaks the kiss, panting breaths rushing past Shane’s ear as Shane leans down to mouth at the join of Ryan’s neck and shoulder. 

Ryan groans when Shane gets his own hands up under Ryan’s shirt, fingers digging into the meat of the muscles along the column of Ryan’s spine. Ryan’s hips stutter forward when Shane sucks a mark into the join of his neck and shoulder. Shane wants to darken it, make it impossible to cover, but he holds himself back.

“Jesus,” Ryan mutters, voice a breathless rasp. He arches back, taking Shane with him, and Shane grunts as the movement brings their hips together in a delicious friction.

Shane doesn’t care that other people might be around, that the office is not empty, that the darkening skyline of London is just outside the windows. The dark is their hiding place, the shadows that Ryan works in, slanting across his face in sharp lines. Highlights of his expression are picked out by the spill of light from the hallway through the frosted glass windows along the front of the office. 

Ryan drops his hands to the desk, to hold himself up as they go back to kissing. Shane’s blood heats like the hot wind across a desert, inexorable and unavoidable as Ryan nips Shane’s lower lip before pulling away enough to breathe. His eyes are blown wide enough that even in the shadowed office, Shane can see the way his irises are almost consumed. Ryan’s mouth is plush, lips spit-slick and swollen from their kissing. 

“Bit cliché to fuck the secretary on her desk, isn’t it?” Ryan says, rolling his hips forward to punctuate. Shane grits his teeth against the way his knees want to weaken.

“Who said you were  _ fucking _ the secretary?” Shane remarks mildly, sliding his hand up to cup Ryan’s jaw, his thumb resting on the softness of Ryan’s lower lip. Shane’s smile feels sharp on his mouth. Ryan’s eyes widen briefly, then go heavy-lidded and his mouth drops open at the gentle pressure of Shane’s thumb.

“Are you good for it?” Shane asks, leaning back in to replace his thumb with his mouth. Ryan meets his intensity, clutching at Shane’s sides while Shane kisses him, his hand cupping the side of Ryan’s neck. 

The answer to Shane’s question is clear enough from the way Ryan’s hands go fumbling towards Shane’s belt, but Shane still wants to hear it anyway. 

“Ryan,” Shane says, warning warring with wanting in his voice as he pulls away from the heat of Ryan’s mouth but keeps their faces close. 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, into the barest space between them. Shane can feel the shape of the words against his own lips. “Yeah. I’m good.” 

He ducks his head to kiss along Shane’s jaw, and then to graze his teeth along the side of Shane’s throat. Shane’s hand threads into Ryan’s hair, fingers tightening when Ryan bites down under the hinge of Shane’s jaw.

“Christ,” Shane swears. 

Ryan hitches himself up onto Shane’s desk, and Shane steps into the space between his legs, sliding his hands up the length of Ryan’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Ryan says, drawing it out and letting his head tip back and his eyes fall closed. Shane leans in to mouth at the column of his throat, unable to let the opportunity go to waste. Ryan swallows under Shane’s mouth, and Shane lifts his head.

“Look at me,” Shane says. Ryan shivers, but his eyes open, dark and lovely. “Tell me what you want.” 

“You know what I want,” Ryan argues, looking away from Shane’s gaze and down to where they are pressed together before looking back up to Shane’s face.

“Did no one ever teach you to ask nicely for favours?” 

Ryan grins, full of teeth. Shane realises his mistake immediately. “Moneypenny,” Ryan drawls, “be a good girl and touch my dick. Please.” 

The flush rockets up Shane’s spine, heat flooding through his chest and up into his face. He’s moving before he can think about it, palming Ryan over his trousers. Ryan’s head tips back and the rest of him goes with it. Shane’s hand tightens around Ryan’s shoulder, helping to ease him all the way back down onto the desk. 

“Yeah,” Ryan pants, as Shane pops the button of his fly and gets his hand inside of Ryan’s pants. He groans, loud and uncaring, into the quiet office when Shane gets a hand around him. The velvet weight of Ryan’s dick in Shane’s palm makes him shiver. 

Shane reaches for one of his drawers, fingers catching on and sliding off the drawer handle when Ryan rolls up into the loose grip of Shane’s fist. Shane leans forward over Ryan, pressing him down into the desk. Holding him still.

The drawer comes open the next time Shane reaches, and he digs around blindly for the bottle of lotion he keeps inside. Shane pops the cap one-handed, the sound loud when the office’s only other sounds are Ryan’s harsh breathing and the shift of their bodies against each other and the desk. He doesn’t slick up his hand immediately though, setting the bottle down beside Ryan’s hip and reaching for himself instead.

Ryan props himself up on his elbows to watch what Shane’s doing, eyes zeroing in on Shane’s hands at his own belt. Ryan’s laid out across his desk like every fantasy Shane’s ever briefly entertained. Ryan’s flushed, hair mussed, and he’s biting his lip, watching with avid interest as Shane unbuckles his belt and pops his fly. 

Ryan whistles through his teeth when Shane gets his pants down over his hips, cock visibly hard in his underwear. For once in his life, Shane doesn’t suppress the urge to preen, cupping himself briefly before letting his hand fall away.

“Big boy,” Ryan says, admiring. He shifts his weight, reaching out with one hand to draw his fingers down the length of Shane’s dick. Shane’s eyes slip shut at the gentle touch, his nerves sparking like Ryan’s a live wire and Shane’s standing in a pool of water. 

“Bet you know how to use that,” Ryan continues, voice low. His fingers dance down Shane’s shaft, over his underwear, and then up and under the waistband, pulling the underwear down with his wrist as he gets his hand fully around Shane. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Shane says, voice going tight as Ryan’s hand tightens around him. The angle’s bad, but it matters very little. Blood beats like wings in Shane’s ears. 

“I would,” Ryan agrees. His eyes are dark, and he licks his lips. Shane tracks the movement of his tongue with a degree of attentiveness he normally reserves for monitoring M’s inbox. Ryan shifts up a little more, pushing himself up so he can get a better grip on Shane. 

Shane gasps, sucking in air. “Keep doing that, and you won’t get to,” he warns as Ryan’s thumb comes up, sliding over the tip, and then down, pressing in against the underside of the head. 

Ryan’s hand stills. 

Shane reaches for the lotion, pouring it onto his fingers, and then curling them around Ryan’s hand and Ryan’s dick. The lotion slicks the way. Ryan pulls his hand back and then Shane has both of them in his palm, Ryan making cut off sounds every time Shane’s fingers close over his cockhead. 

This would be more than enough. 

Jerking Ryan off while Ryan is sprawled all over Shane’s desk, moaning prettily in time with the rhythm of Shane’s hand, is more than Shane had ever hoped for, but he still wants more. 

“Turn over,” Shane says, leaning down to mouth at Ryan’s jaw. The stubble under Ryan’s chin is a barely there scrape against Shane’s lips.

“Je-Jesus—" 

“Do it.” 

Shane leans back, letting go of their cocks, and giving Ryan space to turn himself over on the desk. When he’s on his front, Shane reaches out with his clean hand and tugs Ryan’s pants down over his ass. 

Shane squeezes more lotion onto his hand, and then slides his thumb along the cleft of Ryan’s ass, stopping to press it against the tight furl of Ryan’s asshole, rubbing circles into the muscle, teasing.

“Open up for me, baby,”

Ryan shudders, pushing back against the pressure of Shane’s thumb.

Ryan grunts when Shane slips a finger in, up to the knuckle. “Fuck,” he gasps, eloquent. Shane agrees, and pulls back, watching his finger disappear into Ryan and listening to the way Ryan’s breathing hitches every time.

It takes almost no time at all for Ryan to start pushing back against Shane’s hand, and then for Shane to slide a second finger in along with the first, making Ryan scrabble for a better hold on the desk, knocking a cup full of pens onto the floor. Shane’s new fountain pen rolls away from the rest of them, coming to rest against the foot of the coat rack.

“You’re gonna need another,” Shane says, and Ryan nods. Shane smooths his free hand across the swell of Ryan’s ass, and then slots a third finger in beside the first two. The noise Ryan makes goes straight to Shane’s dick.

Ryan’s panting, rolling his hips back into Shane’s hand and whimpering every time Shane’s fingers curl inside him. Shane thinks he’s never seen anything so lovely. He lets Ryan fuck himself onto Shane’s hand for a while, enjoying the visual and the way Ryan bites his lip in frustration when Shane keeps his hand just far enough back so that Ryan can’t quite get enough from his fingers. 

“C’mon,” Ryan whines, through his teeth. He’s looking over his shoulder, sweat darkening the hair at his temples.

Shane grins. “Tell me,” he says, twisting his hand and making Ryan jump. 

“I want—” Ryan says, stopping himself to suck in a breath. A flush rides high along the ridges of his cheekbones. “I want— _ fuck _ —”

“Getting warmer,” Shane hums, pushing forward to keep Ryan from rocking back any further. His cock rests in the cleft of Ryan’s ass, and the shock of Ryan’s overheated skin against it makes it twitch. Shane allows himself the shuddery breath. 

“You’re the worst, you know that?” Ryan snaps. 

Shane stills. “Am I?” 

“Yes, you fucker,” Ryan grits out, his hips still making aborted little backwards movements, like he’s trying to get whatever he can out of Shane’s now still hand. 

“You want something else?” 

Ryan nods, hiding his face in the curve of his bicep. 

“What do you want, Ryan?” Shane slides his hand back and forward again, and Ryan yelps, his whole body jolting. 

“Fuck—” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, feeling the minute tremors running through Ryan’s whole body. “Okay, baby, I got you.” 

“Don’t call me—” Ryan’s voice cuts off on a needy sound that seems pulled from the depths of his body when Shane pulls his fingers out and adjusts himself to press the head of his cock against Ryan’s hole. 

Shane leans forward, planting one hand on the desk by Ryan’s hip, and pushes in on a slow, slide. 

The sweet shock of the first slide makes Shane’s toes curl in his shoes. Ryan moans. The sound vibrates through Ryan’s whole body, into Shane’s and then back out again, in a feedback loop that makes every nerve under Shane’s skin come alive. He grits his teeth, holding Ryan’s hip with one hand and curling the other one into a fist, pressed into the top of the desk. He breathes through his nose, walking himself back from the edge with sheer bloodymindedness. 

Ryan shifts his feet, and clenches around Shane. “Fuck,” he says, drawing it out long and slow, voice dying into a whisper of shocked pleasure when Shane hitches his hips back, and slides forward again. 

Ryan groans, punched out and lovely, his hands curled around the edge of Shane’s desk, knuckles white. 

“Fuck,” Shane’s muttering, over and over. He seems to have lost all the other words.

Sweat dampens Shane’s hairline. He’s too dressed, they both are. Ryan’s shoulders straining against the seams of his jacket, his pants down around his thighs, belt buckle jangling against Shane’s own. Shane’s shirt is moist at the collar and he can feel the stick of sweat against his back. Next time, Shane thinks, as he leans forward, sliding his palm up the desk, he’ll get Ryan fully naked, so he can look his fill, so he can taste every inch of that glorious skin, so he can watch, delighted, as the flush curls over Ryan’s shoulders and down his chest, so he can see the dusky points of Ryan’s nipples. 

Shane bites at Ryan’s ear, and Ryan keens. Shane keeps right on fucking him, hips moving in a steadily increasing rhythm as he feels the tightening ache in the base of his spine. It’s almost too much, curled over Ryan on his desk, face pressed against the curl of hair at the back of Ryan’s neck, mouth searching for skin. 

The angle of his thrusts has changed now that Shane’s leaned forward, and almost every one hits the spot inside that makes Ryan swear, all the vowels crunched in his teeth.

Ryan whines under him, looking back at Shane, teeth in his lip, eyes dark, body stretched out, hips meeting Shane’s for every thrust. The knowing look on Ryan’s face is the thing that sets it off.

Shane’s orgasm hits him like the concussion wave of a small explosive, and he comes, buried to the hilt in Ryan, body bowing over him, eyes squeezed shut. 

For a moment, everything is still, and then Ryan shifts under Shane. 

Shane pulls out, and turns Ryan over, hands on his hips, petting along the jut of his hip bones and down the crease of his thigh, but never quite where he knows Ryan wants his hands. Ryan’s chest heaves, every breath ragged. His shirt is damp down his chest, and Shane shoves it up, exposing the firm expanse of Ryan’s stomach, and the cut of his hips. He’s a picture like this, dick jutting up between his thighs, still hard, flushed at the tip.

“Fuck me,” Ryan gasps, dazed. He pushes one hand through his sweaty hair, leaving it a riot.

“Already did that, Bergara,” Shane quips, getting a hand around him. Ryan moans.

“So good for me,” Shane says, watching the praise land when Ryan’s eyes flutter shut and he arches into Shane’s grip. “Took it so well,” Shane murmurs, smoothing his free hand down the front of Ryan’s shirt, ”looked so good with my cock in you.” 

“Jesus,” Ryan grunts. 

Ryan comes with a keening noise. His whole body tensing and then relaxing as he spills over Shane’s fist. 

They breathe together in the aftermath, no sound but the rustling of their clothes and the hum of Shane’s computer fan. 

“Shit,” Ryan says, eventually, bringing one hand up to scrub down his face. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you, Madej,” he says, looking up at Shane, who is still propped up on one hand, leaning over Ryan, chest heaving.

“Think you’re the one that had it in you, Bergara.”

For a moment, there’s just Ryan’s shocked face and then he’s cracking up. Shane follows suit, unable to help himself.

  
  


-:-

Shane takes Ryan to Mr Daeng’s later that night. 

They sit on chairs with cracked red vinyl seats, while the sounds of the wok echo through the empty storefront. A Japanese baseball game plays on mute on the TV over the counter, and the air smells of peanut sauce and the heat of hot peppers. 

They both stand when Mr Daeng brings out their bag of take away containers. Ryan beats Shane to the counter, handing him the black card that covers all his out of country expenses. Shane meets Ryan’s eyes over the till, and Ryan’s expression dares him to say anything at all. Shane doesn’t, instead turning away to gather up a set of chopsticks for each of them while Ryan finishes paying. 

They stand outside the hole in the wall restaurant for a moment, under the dark London skies. 

Ryan clears his throat. Shane looks down. Ryan’s still rumpled from their — encounter, earlier. His shirt is open several extra buttons at the neck, and not tucked into his trousers. Shane also knows he’s not wearing anything under those trousers, much like he himself isn’t wearing anything under his. They’d pitched their unsalvageable underthings into a handy bin on the way down to the takeaway. 

“Thank you,” Shane says, beating Ryan to whatever he was going to say. “I appreciate you replacing my pen.” 

“Anytime, Madej,” Ryan says, surprise flickering over his features before he hides it behind a cocky grin. “Couldn’t have my favourite secretary crying over a missing pen, now could I?” 

“Not a secretary,” Shane says. 

“Oh, so you’re just called Moneypenny for fun, then?” Ryan asks, eyes bright with mirth. 

Shane sighs. Ryan bumps their shoulders together. 

“C’mon,” he says, “mine’s not far.” 

Shane falls into step beside him, bag of Thai takeaway weighing down one hand, but the rest of him light as a feather.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and chat on [tumblr](https://sequencefairy.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/warpspeed_chic).


End file.
